Get Happy!

Okay, so may last couple of posts have been real downers: whiny, self-pitying and the like. I can get like that sometimes, especially when my blood sugar is too low and the reading on the scale is too high. But now I'm starting to look on the brighter side of things. I'm starting a new exercise regimen, and exercise always improves my mood. Also, J bought me the cutest little laptop to do my writing. Now I don't have to be at home, struggling through distraction after distraction just to get something down. Right now I'm at a Borders book store in Santa Monica. I'm enjoying a day off from work, which I really needed. The day is absolutely gorgeous. I look outside the window and see dazzling sky, a rich, spotless blue. The perfect sky makes me wonder about the endless beauty of the world in those places I can't see but believe to be. Alright, I'm getting a little too romantic again.

The only thing keeping this day from being completely perfect is the agonizing soreness of my body from yesterday's workout. I hired a personal trainer for a short time to help me work out an exercise plan, and my god, did she put me through the gamut. After thirty minutes on the treadclimber, I did seven additional minutes on the wave machine to work my glutes, and after that my trainer guided me through an weight lifting routine for my upper body. I can barely move a muscle now, I'm so sore. On top of that I have a bit of a headache. This morning I went to bed with the same nagging head throbs I went to bed with last night. It could be that I didn't get enough to eat after my workout yesterday. Or it could be all the freakin' sodium that was in that chopped salad I ate at the cafe. I mean that place has got to be the worst for misleading the public on the nutritional content of its menu. Here I'm thinking I'm eating a healthy salad, but then, with my trusty new laptop, I look up on the internet the cafe's nutrition guide, and find out that what I thought was healthy and good for me was laden with calories, fat, and get this--2100 mg of sodium. What the hell?

In case I forgot to mention it, thanks to my parents' cursed genes, I have high blood pressue. I should be taking medication for it, but I'm trying my best to bring it back to normal through natural methods. So I'm exercising regularly, changing my diet to a low calorie, low sodium one, with more fruits and vegetables, and taking supplements. Hopefully all this work will pay off in a trimmer body and a normal bp reading next time at the doc's. But I've got a ways to go. No worries. Challenges should be viewed as opportunities. So, go me.

Here We Go Again

Writing is the most aggravating, frustrating chore. At least it is for me. I don't enjoy as much as I thought I would. I hate every plodding word as much as I hate the features on my face. You can tell by the jarring, jerky sound of my writing that I have no instinct of rhythm, that my thoughts are random and scattered, and that I don't possess a useful thought in my head. I talk about the most inane, boring shit in the most awkward way. Every time I sit down to write I feel as if I'm trying to start the rusted engine of a decrepit automobile. If it even starts up at all, it revs and dies, revs and dies, gives out before it can make it up the hill, and slides back to where it was originally parked, sometimes a few feet behind it. And there's me behind the wheel, cursing the wretched thing to go; go some where--anywhere--just as long as I move.

Yeah, fuck writing. Seriously, fuck it. I can't stand it. It's the hardest thing I ever had to do. My hands actually ache the moment I begin to type. My brain rejects everything it produces in print, and commands that I go back and revise a word before I even set it down.

There's got to be away to kill this inner critic of mine. It's destroying my spirit, telling me I'm a failure before I even try. I want to write about my experiences working at the drug store, but I can't seem to get the thoughts in my head straight. It's like there's a cold war going on between my thoughts and my fingers; neither faction is reasoning with the other. And the treasures of my imagination hide in the dark, rejecting self fulfillment and objective expression, as if shunning the light of being. Why? I have such beautiful, lyrical dreams, mental images that sing with wonder. Are they perfect only in the shadows and fear the inherent impurity of form? This can be the only answer, for which I have my mother to blame. She gave me dreams but taught me to never act on them. Such is the way of witches. They never share their treasures with the outside world. They horde them, horde them in the darkest cave, in the highest tower, and the deepest pit. But I don't want that for my dreams. I want them to be born, no matter how painful the process.

Practice is pain, I suppose. I may as well grit my teeth and bear it.